


Steam

by adrianna_m_scovill



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Angry Sex, Angst, Biting, F/M, Jealousy, Pining, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 07:08:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20888132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adrianna_m_scovill/pseuds/adrianna_m_scovill
Summary: The request was for Barson's first time to be angry sex - a tricky line to walk but hopefully it doesn't feel too out of character.





	Steam

Barba scribbled a few notes on the paper in front of him, barely aware of the marks the pen was making as he surveyed the jury from the corner of his eye. He was pretty sure he’d lost most of them before Calhoun got her requested recess and now, nearly twenty-four hours later, they’d had time to reflect on exactly how unreliable Eliza had seemed so far.

The NYPD had done a piss-poor job of investigating her case from the beginning, and Barba’s temples were still pounding at the memory of yesterday’s surprise reveal that Eliza’s account of her assault was potentially off by a _whole day._ How in the _hell_ had no one figured that out before she made it to the stand?

Calhoun had been surprised by the revelation, too—discovered by accident when she grilled Eliza on the details of her assault and realized that the attack could not possibly have happened on Sunday night as Eliza claimed—Eliza had maintained throughout the investigation that she’d heard her neighbor get a delivery during the time of the assault, that she’d called out for help but no one had responded.

Somehow no one had noticed that the deliveryman’s statement put him in the apartment building on _Saturday_ night, not Sunday—no one noticed until Calhoun read his statement, which claimed he’d heard nothing unusual from Eliza’s apartment, aloud in court.

Calhoun had gotten lucky, but that didn’t discount the brilliance of the discovery. She’d immediately requested a recess, which had of course been granted, and Barba had no doubt she’d put the extra day to good use. He could feel the case crumbling around him, and he didn’t like the panicky feeling that had been simmering in his gut, untouchable by the strongest antacids. He needed a win, for Eliza but also for his career.

The move to the Bronx DA’s office was on paper a lateral move, but everyone knew that he’d become damaged goods. He’d once had doors opening in every direction, and he’d ignored them all, content to stay where he was. Now, when he needed a new course, nearly all of the doors had been slammed shut.

He needed a win.

“The defense calls Lieutenant Oliva Benson.”

Barba’s head snapped up. “What?” he said, the word tumbling out of his mouth before he was aware of his lips moving. Rita Calhoun met his startled gaze, and he could see the faintest hint of apology in her eyes before she hid it away. Her chin went up a notch in defense. “Objection,” he said a bit desperately. “Your honor, this witness was never—”

“We only just discovered her connection to the defendant after new evidence came to light.”

Barba looked at _the defendant_, Jim Turner. Turner’s smug smile made Barba’s hand clench into a fist. He’d known plenty of Jim Turners in his life: arrogant, entitled rich kids who thought the world was made to bow down to them.

And now he was a cop. Barba didn’t have any illusions that Turner had become a cop out of some noble desire to help people. People like Turner were drawn to the power of the job. As far as cops went, he was the complete opposite of Olivia Benson, and the idea that she was about to get up on that stand and toe the thin blue line for that _asshole_—

Barba’s head turned as she walked into the courtroom, and their gazes met. Familiar brown eyes read him in an instant; he’d never had any hope of hiding his feelings from her. He watched her take the stand while his heart thudded in his ears.

Jim Turner was a sergeant in the Bronx homicide division. He was thirty-eight years old, attractive and cocksure, and he was accused of rape. The Bronx SVU had made a mess of the case at nearly every step, and Eliza’s mistakes had made her seem less than credible.

Her assault was undeniable, though, and after some confusion she’d identified Jim Turner as her rapist. Barba had been fighting an uphill battle but until the previous afternoon he’d been optimistic about clinching a guilty verdict. Then Calhoun had blindsided them all with her accidental discovery of the discrepancy in Eliza’s timeline, a discrepancy that should’ve been identified, investigated, and explained by SVU before Barba ever took the case to court.

Benson’s team would not have been so sloppy.

“Thank you for joining us on such short notice, Lieutenant Benson,” Calhoun said. “Can you state for the record your experience as a member of the NYPD and, more specifically, the Manhattan Special Victims Unit?”

Barba barely heard Benson’s answer. He knew he should object even though it would be overruled, just to plant the tiniest seed of doubt in the minds of the jury about the relevance of the lieutenant’s testimony, but he couldn’t seem to find the words. He glanced over at Jim Turner again. The sergeant was leaned back in his seat, smug smile firmly in place on his face.

“…with Mr. Turner on the night in question?”

Barba’s attention snapped back to Benson on the witness stand. She wasn’t looking at him. He could read her as well as she could read him, and he could see the discomfort in every line of her body no matter how much she might be trying to hide it.

“Yes,” she said. Barba was unaware that the cheap Bic pen in his hand was bending with the force of his grip.

“The whole night?”

“That’s correct,” Benson said, and Barba noted dully that she wasn’t looking at Turner, either. She was keeping her gaze firmly planted on Calhoun.

Barba couldn’t begin to sort through his emotions but he was having an uncharacteristically difficult time pushing them aside. He could scarcely hear Calhoun over the roar of blood in his ears, could barely see Benson’s face through the haze of anger that had begun to cloud his thoughts and vision. He felt like he was going to explode out of his seat if he didn’t find a way to expend some energy, and when Calhoun finally thanked Benson for her testimony he surged to his feet.

Once he was up, however, he faltered for something to say. Accusations piled onto his tongue, tripping over each other as they tried to find release, but he somehow managed to swallow them all. They went down as a cold and squirming lump and settled heavily into his stomach.

He buttoned his blazer with shaky fingers to stall for a few more seconds. “Lieutenant Benson,” he finally said. She was looking at him, but her gaze was guarded, almost unreadable. “You, um…” His mouth was dry. He glanced at the pitcher of water, but he’d already shown weakness and he had to recover before the jury completely turned on him and, by extension, Eliza. “You said that you were with the defendant the night he’s accused of having assaulted Ms. Robinson, is that correct?”

To her credit, Benson didn’t flinch away from his stare. “That’s right. Saturday the thirteenth,” she added, unprompted, to clarify. So, she knew the original accusation had been for the fourteenth.

“All night.”

“Yes. As I said, we went back to his place around nine—”

“Yes, of course, we heard your testimony a moment ago,” Barba interrupted. “Could you tell the court what your relationship is with the defendant?”

Her chin went up a notch. “We don’t have a relationship,” she said. He recognized the steel in her voice. “This is the first time I’ve seen him in person since that night and before that we’d worked on one case together.”

Barba’s scalp was tingling but he held her gaze. He rounded the table and crossed toward her, moving slowly not for dramatic effect but because he didn’t trust his legs.

“Walk us through that evening, Lieutenant,” he said in a low voice as he drew nearer to the stand.

“Objection,” Calhoun said. “She’s already—”

“The jury needs to hear the details if they’re to believe the defendant’s _alibi _is anything other than cops looking out for _cops_,” Barba said, practically spitting the last word at Benson. He didn’t mean to let so much of his anger spill into his voice. He didn’t mean to let his hands curl into fists at his sides.

And he sure as hell didn’t mean to feel the jealousy churning in the pit of his stomach.

He barely heard Calhoun object again, barely heard the judge allow his question. He put his hand on the front edge of the witness box, glaring at Benson. “Whenever you’re ready,” he told her, and he saw the anger flash in her dark eyes.

“We ran into each other at McGinty’s, he was with a group of officers, I was by myself.”

“Do you often go drinking alone, Lieutenant?” As soon as the words left his lips, Barba hoped that Calhoun would object before Benson had a chance to answer. The defense attorney was silent behind him, though.

“Not always alone,” she said. Her tone and expression were a challenge; she was daring him to continue.

“But this particular night you went out to a bar alone and ended up going home with the defendant.”

“Is there a law against two adults—”

“You tell me, you’re the detective.”

“Lieutenant.”

“Right, sorry, my mistake.”

They glared at each other, and Barba had almost forgotten all the other eyes and ears trained toward their exchange. “There isn’t,” she said.

“So you went home with him. Did you sleep with him?”

“Objection—”

“Yes,” Benson said before Calhoun had finished speaking.

Barba knew he had no right to the jealousy burning within him, so he focused on the anger. The sense of betrayal. “And you were there all night,” he said through numb, barely-moving lips. His knuckles were white as he gripped the edge of the stand.

“Yes. I left around five in the morning.”

“Were you aware of the allegations against the defendant before yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you not come forward before this?”

“As I understand it, the vic—Ms. Robinson said that the attack happened the following night. It’s only yesterday that I heard he was being accused of assaulting her during the time I was with—”

“So you believe her story is credible, then.”

Benson’s mouth snapped shut, and he could see her struggling to find the right words. “I’ve never spoken to her,” she finally said.

“In your experience, is it common for victims to mix up details and dates?”

“Objection, she said she’s never spoken—”

“The defense specifically asked for her qualifications.”

“Overruled, witness may answer.”

“Yes, it’s common,” Benson said.

“So when you first heard of the accusation, you didn’t rush forward to volunteer as a character witness?”

“No, I didn’t think it was relevant—”

“You thought there was merit to the accusation. Otherwise you wouldn’t have hesitated—”

“Is there a question here?” Calhoun asked.

“Withdrawn,” Barba snapped before the judge could say anything. “Why didn’t the defendant name you as a character witness?”

“Like I said, it wasn’t relevant,” Benson said. “I’m sure he didn’t want to drag me into something when we weren’t—”

“Noble of him. Look at Ms. Robinson, Lieutenant Benson,” Barba said, and her eyes slid toward the young woman before she could stop them from following Barba’s command. He saw her expression tighten, saw the pain around her mouth and in her eyes. His next question was unnecessary for him but he asked it anyway. For the jury, or so he tried to convince himself. “Do you believe she was raped?”

“I haven’t—”

“Spoken to her, I know. Speaking solely on your decades of experience, do you believe she’s _lying_? Or is it more likely she was so traumatized that she mixed up the details?” After Calhoun’s discovery, he’d spoken to the deliveryman himself, and the man had confirmed to Barba that the date on his paperwork was correct—that he’d been in the building on Saturday the thirteenth at just before eleven p.m. There were no deliveries reported for the following night.

“Without being involved in the investigation or interview, I can’t speculate—”

Barba slapped his palm against the wood, startling her into silence. “No, we wouldn’t want you to speculate,” he said. “Thank you so much for your enlightening testimony, Lieutenant Benson. No further questions.” He rolled his shoulders, jerking his lapels into place as he turned and strode back to his table.

“All I know is that he couldn’t have attacked her, or anyone, the night of the thirteenth,” Benson said behind him. “That’s the extent of my testimony.”

Barba didn’t answer. He glanced at the jury, but he was too distracted and angry to gauge their reactions. He unbuttoned his jacket as he dropped into his chair. Benson was no longer looking at him, so he took a few seconds to study her.

She was looking at Eliza, and Barba almost felt guilty for the guilt-tip he’d laid on the lieutenant.

Almost.

When Benson’s gaze slid to his, he dropped his stare to the notes on his table and scribbled furiously as though he had any idea what his pen was doing.

* * *

Barba opened his apartment door and glared out at Benson, refusing to acknowledge the little flutter in his stomach at the sight of her, or the flush of guilt he felt at the way he’d treated her, or the niggle of fear in his gut that told him he may have pushed her past the point of forgiveness.

“If you’re trying to get me disbarred for witness tampering, you needn’t bother—my career is—”

“Are you going to invite me in?”

“If you wanted to apologize, you could’ve sent a text,” he answered without moving aside.

Whatever openness had been in her expression closed, and he saw her eyes flash again. God, he’d missed that fire. “You seem angry, Barba. I thought maybe there was something you wanted to say to me.”

“I seem angry?” he asked with a humorless twist of his lips. He crossed his arms over his chest in the doorway. “I’m not angry,” he lied. “Why would I be?”

“You tell me.”

He rolled a shoulder in a shrug. “I was just doing my job, Lieutenant.”

“Really? That’s not the way you did your job when we worked together.”

“When we worked together we were putting the bad guys in prison, not fucking them.”

She recoiled, but the gesture was subtle, barely noticeable. “Okay,” she said. Her tone was deceptively mild, and he knew her well enough to recognize the danger there. “Do you really want to do this here?” she asked, gesturing to the side with a hand.

He glanced around. “If someone calls the cops I’m sure you can take care of them one way or another.”

“Fine.” She crossed her arms to match his posture. “Then say what you want to say.”

“With all due respect, Lieutenant, you’re standing at _my_ door. It seems you’re the one with something to say.”

“With all due respect? You asked me in front of a courtroom full of people if I’d had a one-night stand—”

“I know you like to fuck cops.”

He’d seen the look on her face before, but it had never been directed at him. He almost apologized in spite of his simmering anger. “Actually,” she said slowly, “I’ve fucked a lot more lawyers than cops. In fact, I can only think of one ADA I’ve worked with that I didn’t—”

He unfolded his arms and grabbed the edge of the door. “Thanks so much for stopping by,” he said, but she reached out and slapped a palm against the door before he could slam it in her face.

“You don’t get to decide when this conversation is over,” she said a low voice. “You can’t walk away from me this time.”

He swallowed hard, momentarily floundering for a response in the face of her pain and anger and the justified condemnation in her words. “Who’s walking away?” he finally managed.

“Your favorite move,” she shot back. Her arm was still outstretched, her hand against the door, and she was standing close to him now. Too close. Her next words didn’t help: “Or maybe just with me.”

He stepped back, but he flashed a bitter smile so she’d know he wasn’t backing _down_. “By all means, won’t you please come in,” he said, shoving the door wider.

She strode past him into his apartment and whirled to face him as he pushed the door closed a little too hard. “Jim didn’t rape Eliza on the night of the thirteenth.”

“She said it happened on the fourteenth. He has no alibi—”

“Yesterday she said the thirteenth.”

“—and she saved the clothes with his semen.” He saw her flinch. She hadn’t known that detail—it hadn’t been released to the public and he supposed he should be thankful that word hadn’t spread through the NYPD. He’d lost what little faith he’d had in the Bronx SVU and that didn’t bode well for his current job. His stomach burned at the thought of having to start over _again_.

“When Rita got Eliza to admit it was the night before—”

“She didn’t _admit anything_,” Barba cut in. “Rita tripped her up with questions about a delivery guy who was supposedly there—You know what, we can’t talk about this,” he said, slicing his hand through the air.

“When Jim found out Eliza had the wrong date—_might_ have the wrong date,” she amended quickly when she saw his mouth open, “he told Rita he was with me the night of the thirteenth. She came to me, Rafael. You can hate me for telling the truth—” She stopped when he made a low sound in his throat. She watched him for a few moments as he started pacing. “If you have physical evidence, the date doesn’t—”

“_I_ don’t have _anything_,” he hissed, glaring at her as he paced the floor. “He’s a fucking police sergeant who claims they had consensual sex. She’s gotten detail after detail wrong and now Rita made her look like a liar in front of the jury. Well, she’s _not_ lying. Jim Turner raped her.”

“You’re sure,” she said. The words were barely audible and not phrased as a question.

“She told me.” He spread his arms. “And I believe her. And he’s going to get away with it.”

“No. No, Rafael, ask for another continuance and have the Bronx SVU look into—”

“The Bronx SVU are idiots,” he snapped. He dipped his head sideways in something of a shrug, continuing to pace. “Or corrupt.” He regarded her from the corner of his eye as he walked the floor. “You know how cops cover for cops.”

“I never knew you had such a low opinion of the police.”

“Not all police.”

“Why take the job?”

“I’m not exactly drowning in job offers.”

“Bullshit,” she shot back, surprising him. “You could’ve done anything. You chose to move to another SVU—”

“I thought I was good at it. Turns out that was another illusion.”

She stared at him. “What?”

He stopped and turned toward her. “Are we done here? I have a closing argument to write.”

“You can get a continuance.”

“What for? They’ll never convict him now.”

“It’s not my fault.”

“I never said it was.”

“I told the truth.”

“I know. He couldn’t have assaulted her the night he picked you up in a bar.”

“He didn’t pick me up. I picked him up.”

“Good. Great.”

“There’s another accusation. In Manhattan. We’re investigating.”

He blinked in surprise. “So you _are_ trying to get me disbarred.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“We can’t talk about this.”

“I couldn’t get on that stand and lie. You _know_ I couldn’t. That doesn’t mean I don’t—” She pressed her lips together and shook her head. He could see the unshed tears shimmering in her eyes and he started walking again, unable to stand still. She turned, keeping her gaze on him as he slowly circled her. “We both have to live with the choices we’ve made but I don’t appreciate being treated like the enemy.”

“_Sleeping_ with the enemy,” he muttered.

“You’re being an asshole.”

“I’m aware.”

“How do you think it felt to have one of my best friends accuse me in front of a _courtroom full of people_ of defending a rapist just because he’s a cop—”

“You’ve walked the blue line before.”

“—or because I slept with—That was different and you—”

“How do you think it felt to know you—”

“—_know it_, Rafael.”

“—fucked that piece of shit—”

“_Stop saying fucked_.”

“_You_ stop saying fucked!” he shot back. He knew the response was ridiculous and that knowledge only made him angrier. “You wanna tell me it meant something more?”

“I don’t have to justify myself to you.”

“Of course not,” he spat, circling her.

“I can sleep with whoever I want.”

“So go find someone—”

“What gives you _any_ right to be jealous?”

He drew up short, staring at her. “Jealous?” he scoffed. His eyebrows went up, then immediately crashed down into a scowl. He was going to tell her the very _idea_ was laughable, but instead he heard an angry admission spilling from his lips. “After all the time I spent worrying I wasn’t good enough only to watch you fall into bed with asshole after asshole who didn’t deserve you? And now—”

“Fuck you.”

“Ex_cuse me_?”

She jabbed a finger toward his chest, stopping just short of touching him. “How dare you?” she asked, barely above a whisper. “_You_ walked out of _my_ life. How _dare_ you act like some jilted—”

“You said it yourself, I was the one person you didn’t want.” The words had hurt while they were lodged in his chest, but he was unprepared for how badly they burned as they left his throat. He could feel the sting of tears reddening his eyes.

“Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“No, hey, I get it,” he said, spreading his arms again. “What do I have to offer that they didn’t? Except, you know, being able to breathe with my mouth closed.”

“At least they weren’t afraid to tell me what they wanted.”

“Yeah? And I guess Jim Turner had what _you_ wanted,” he shot back.

“Maybe all I wanted was someone to put me up against the wall—”

“Did you sleep against the wall, too?”

“He didn’t kick me out,” she said with a shrug. “So I stayed.”

He stepped closer. “How could you sleep with someone like that?” he asked in a low voice. He saw her expression shift and knew he’d let too much rawness creep into his throat. She searched his eyes and he could only imagine the pain she must be seeing, the pain he was trying unsuccessfully to hide.

“Sometimes sex is just sex, Rafael,” she said. “I didn’t know about any allegations against him. I knew he was an asshole but it’s not like I was—”

“I mean _sleep with him_,” he cut in. He started walking again, circling her.

“Sue me for wanting to feel someone sleeping beside me for a few hours.”

“If all you wanted was a body—”

“_Stop moving_,” she said, reaching out to grab his sleeve. He felt the light pressure of her fingers against his arm and his temper flared as he turned to face her again. He hated how badly he wanted her to touch him, to _really_ touch him—to wrap her arms around him, to pull him into her warmth— “If all _you_ wanted was somebody to fuck—” she started.

He didn’t know he was going to kiss her until his lips crashed into hers. She made a surprised sound, the only thing he could hear over the roar of blood in his ear, and he wasn’t surprised when he felt her palms against his chest. She pushed him backward and he held up his hands, already trying to find the words to apologize.

She fisted her hands around his suspenders, her knuckles digging into his ribs as she pushed him backward again. When he hit the wall the air left his body in a grunt of surprise. Her mouth covered his before he could catch his breath. Her lips were soft but her kiss was not. He could feel her anger in the pressure of her mouth, the way her tongue pushed against his, the way her knuckles were probably bruising his chest.

The way she shoved her knee between his thighs, effectively pinning him against the wall. Something was digging into his back but he barely registered the pain, only distantly realized it was the light switch.

His body was flushed hot with desire, but her words were echoing in his head:

_If all you wanted was somebody to fuck—_

_Sometimes sex is just sex—_

_Maybe all I wanted was someone to put me up against a wall—_

_I’ve fucked a lot more lawyers than cops_—

_At least they weren’t afraid to tell me what they wanted—_

_Maybe all I wanted was someone to—_

He growled low in his throat and grabbed her hips, pushing her back a step. He turned her, flipping their positions and shoving her against the wall, making sure she missed the light switch with what little presence of mind he still possessed. He wedged his knee between _her_ thighs. “Is this what you want?” he asked roughly, running a hand up her side from her hip. He expected her to stop him before his thumb grazed the swell of her breast, but she didn’t. He faltered for a moment.

“You’re an asshole,” she repeated. There was still acid in her voice, anger. She grabbed the waistband of his trousers and yanked him forward, closer, so she could feel his growing arousal against her thigh. “Is this what _you_ want?”

He tried to think of an answer but couldn’t concentrate. There was nothing but a swirling mixture of desire and anger tangled up in the overwhelming scent of her perfume and the heat of her body against his. “Like I said, if all you wanted was a body,” he heard himself say. His voice was thick with arousal but he still expected her to shove him away, slap him across the face, knee him in the crotch—something, anything, he knew he deserved it.

She slipped her fingers into the front of his shirt and yanked it open, ripping the buttons free. “You’re a coward,” she accused.

“I’m not a coward,” he breathed, scowling down at her hands as she scratched at the front of his undershirt. “Do you know how much that shirt—”

“Shut up.”

“Shut _up_?” he repeated, his temper flaring as their eyes met.

“You’re a coward and a quitter,” she said.

The words were meant to sting and they did; she knew him too well to miss when she took aim. “I’m not,” he said, but he couldn’t summon any real conviction. His anger spiked even higher. “You’re—” he started, but his words failed him again.

“What?” she asked, glaring at him, daring him to finish the thought. “I’m what?”

“Fucking infuriating,” he hissed.

“That’s all you’ve got?” she taunted. She grabbed his suspenders and yanked them off his shoulders, quickly pushing his open shirt off. He pulled his arms free of the sleeves with angry jerks. “Come on, what am I? Cold? Abrasive? Too—”

“You’re not cold,” he said, angrily claiming her lips in another rough kiss. She let his tongue into her mouth but almost immediately caught it between her teeth, biting down hard enough to be _almost_ unbearable. He made a sound of irritation and broke away from her mouth, ducking his head to nip lightly at the curve of her neck just above her shirt collar.

She gasped and grabbed a fistful of his hair hard enough to sting his scalp. Instead of pulling him away, she said, “Not above the collar.”

He nosed into her shirt and grazed his teeth against the soft, pale skin below her collarbone. She didn’t stop him, so he nipped at her skin again, harder, hard enough to leave a small mark. He felt a rush of satisfaction and desire at the moan that slipped past her lips. He flicked his tongue over the mark to sooth the sting, but he was distracted by her hands at his fly.

She fumbled between their bodies, trying to unfasten his trousers, tugging in annoyance at the button. He knocked her hands aside. “Gonna run away?” she asked.

He lifted his head to scowl at her. “You’re ruining my clothes.”

She leaned her head forward, holding his gaze. “Run away, then,” she breathed.

He lifted an arm, fisting his hand against the wall above her shoulder. “I live here,” he reminded her in a low voice.

“Then kick me out,” she shot back.

“Don’t tempt me.” His eyes dropped to her lips, already swollen. Now that he’d tasted her he wanted to taste all of her. His hands itched to explore her body.

_He didn’t kick me out_. Thoughts of Jim Turner touching her, of _anyone_ touching her, made his scalp prickle and his stomach churn. He wanted to erase their touches, to make her forget everyone who’d come before this. He hated the jealousy, the possessiveness, both so unlike him. She was so far under his skin that he could scarcely tell where he ended and she began, and even the miles and years of separation hadn’t dulled his need for her.

“Running away from relationships is _your_ thing,” he said, and he felt her body stiffen between him and the wall.

She put her hands against his chest and shoved him backward. “Right,” she agreed, glaring at him. “You don’t even start one in the first place.”

He closed the space between them with a single step; she’d pushed herself away from the wall. “I’ve had plenty of relationships,” he said as she grabbed the bottom of his undershirt and yanked the cotton garment up and over his head. “I was doing just fine before you took over my fucking life.” He made quick work of the first few buttons of her shirt before she slapped his hands away and stripped it up and off.

“I’ve been out of your life for two years,” she reminded him as she unfastened her pants and kicked off her shoes.

“Bullshit. You’re in my brain like a parasite, I can’t get rid of you.”

“_Good_,” she said, shoving her trousers down her hips and kicking them off. “I hope you can’t sleep at night, that you can’t close your eyes without seeing me.”

He leaned toward her, his breath fanning her lips as he said, “Yeah? And you? Did you ever think about me while you were—”

“Don’t you fucking say it,” she warned, her eyes flashing. Her chest was heaving, the pale swell of her breasts rising and falling above the black cups of her bra.

She and Barba stared at each other, both breathing heavily, their mouths inches apart, green eyes locked onto brown. He wasn’t sure who moved first, but their lips met in an angry, messy kiss. His hands found the hooks at her back and she shrugged out of her bra an instant before he pushed her against the wall. He broke away from her lips and ducked his head, finding one hard nipple with his tongue.

Her back arched and he groaned in satisfaction as the soft weight of her breast filled his mouth. She scratched at his back with her nails. “Harder,” she ordered, and he caught her nipple between his teeth, biting down until her fingernails dug into his shoulders in response. He ran his tongue in circles over the offended nipple. His hands traced the curves of her hips, his fingers slipping into the back of her panties.

She shoved his pants and shorts down his hips, letting them pool around his ankles. He stepped out of the clothes absently, kicking them away. Her hands were all over his body, everywhere except where he wanted them. His erection was pressed against her thigh and he shifted his hips. The friction was too much, though, and he let up almost immediately. He turned his attention to her other breast while he squeezed her ass, pulling her open and sliding his fingers closer to her wetness.

She groaned in frustration, arching against him, and he broke away from her breast with a gasp. “Jesus,” he breathed. He gripped her ass, his fingers digging into her flesh, and pulled her tight against himself. She ground against his erection and he almost came right then. He clenched his jaw, using all of his willpower to fight back the pressure building within him. He would be damned if he ruined this moment by finishing early.

They were the same height now that her shoes were off. When he grabbed the back of her thigh and pulled her leg up she immediately hooked it around him, and his throbbing erection settled against the wet center of her panties. He bit back a groan and bent his head forward, nuzzling at her neck. He kissed and nipped and licked at her skin as he fumbled the damp crotch of her underwear aside.

Her nails were biting into his skin as she clutched at him, spurring him on. “You’re stronger than you look,” she said, a complicated mixture of compliment and taunt.

He sucked hard at the soft flesh above her breast, drawing a mark into her pale skin. His fingers found her slick and ready, and she pressed her heel into the back of his thigh. She leaned her shoulders into the wall and levered her hips, trying desperately to find the release her body needed.

He slipped two fingers into her and she clenched around him. He grunted in satisfaction and hiked her leg higher. A moment later he was thrusting into her, filling her quickly and roughly. She gasped and then moaned, clutching at him, her whole body wrapped around him. He rocked his hips, driving into her again, setting a hard and fast pace.

He was panting against her neck, trying frantically to slow the rising tide of his climax. She grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked his head up, claiming his lips in a wet and breathless kiss. He could feel her body tightening and shivering and he slammed into her again and again, driving her into the wall.

She dropped her head back with a dull thud against the surface, her eyes drifting closed. He managed to get a hand between their bodies; it took only a single brush over her clit with the pad of his thumb and she was coming hard, crying out as she shuddered between him and the wall. She bucked against him, convulsed around him, and pulled his hair hard enough to make his teeth clench against the burn.

He shifted his hips with barely a moment to spare, withdrawing quickly and unceremoniously. Her eyes opened to find his face, and she made a surprised sound when he grabbed her other leg and lifted her all the way off the floor. He clamped an arm around her back and turned away from the wall.

She held tightly to him but didn’t resist. Her body was hot and sweaty, both sticky and slick against his flushed skin. “I can walk,” she told him.

“And I can fucking carry you.”

She said his name, and suddenly his anger was gone. In its absence he felt raw, exposed. _Needy_ in way that had little to do with the hot ache in his groin or the throbbing erection pointing him toward the bedroom, needy in a way that would make him uncomfortable with anyone but her.

He made it into the bedroom and bent awkwardly to throw the covers back. He met her eyes as he lowered her onto the bed, and she pulled him down with an arm hooked behind his neck. Her lips were soft and pliable beneath his, her hands were warm and soothing as they slid over his shoulders and back and ass.

Her panties were crooked, leaving her open to his touch. He rolled his hips forward and filled her, slowly this time, with a sigh of relief that came from a place deep inside of him. One of her hands twisted into his hair again, holding his mouth against hers as she swallowed his breathy moans. He rocked her into the mattress, his movements slow but uncoordinated as he felt his body coming apart.

She tightened around him again, her body working to pull his deeper, and he felt her second orgasm ripple through her. A moment later his hips stuttered and he broke away from her kiss with a soft cry, dropping his face into the curve of her neck as he convulsed and spilled himself inside of her. He trembled in her embrace, shivering as he collapsed against her.

For long moments he couldn’t move; his muscles were useless. Benson was breathing heavily beneath him. Her fingers were twirling absently in the sweaty hair at the back of his head and the gentle caress was comforting. He felt his breathing returning to normal, his heartrate beginning to slow.

“Liv,” he said. He didn’t know what words were meant to follow, he only knew he had to say something.

“Shut up,” she answered before his tongue could form anything else. She started to shift, dropping her arms away from him, so Barba forced his body to move. He rolled and flopped onto his back. Beside him, she dug her elbows into the mattress and pushed herself further up the bed. Instead of leaving she was getting more comfortable, and the realization brought him an overwhelming rush of relief.

He let out a shaky breath, ignoring the burn of tears behind his eyes. He didn’t think he could move; his body was heavy with an exhaustion not just in his muscles but right into the center of his bones.

“Come here,” she said, the command barely audible over the heartbeat still thudding in his ears, and he found that he _could_ move. He dragged himself up to her side and somehow managed to pull the blankets over their cooling bodies. He knew they should get cleaned up. He thought she was still wearing her underwear—probably stretched and askew and uncomfortable—but he couldn’t be certain. His thoughts were a jumbled mess.

“D’you need to—” he started in a mumble, because she was making no move toward the bathroom, but she shushed him softly. He pressed a kiss to her shoulder and curled against her side. She didn’t pull away, so he let his body relax into the comfort of her presence.

* * *

Benson blinked the ceiling into focus. She couldn’t move; Barba was wrapped around her like a spider monkey under the blankets, his naked body warm and solid against hers. His head was on her chest. She looked at his hair, noting that it was now more than just lightly salted with gray.

She was sore—a reminder that she was getting older, too—but the aches and pains were not unpleasant. She knew she had some bruises and she was pretty sure she’d left a few marks on Barba’s body.

“Rafa,” she said quietly, and he stopped breathing. She felt his body stiffen slightly as he woke, but he didn’t immediately pull away. “I’m going to have to leave soon,” she told him, and she didn’t bother trying to keep the regret from her voice. She didn’t want to move, didn’t want to lose the comfort of his heat and weight wrapped around her.

“Right, yeah,” he said. His voice was rough from sleep. “Sorry.” He started to shift away, untangling his legs from hers beneath the covers and drawing his arm back, but he moved slowly. He lifted his head to look at her, and his sleepy green eyes were full of unguarded vulnerability; she wondered how many people had seen him like this, with all of his defenses down.

He searched her face and swallowed.

His gaze dropped to the curve of her neck, and he lifted his hand to lightly brush the pad of his thumb over a mark he’d left on her pale skin. “Liv,” he breathed.

“Don’t. I don’t want your apologies,” she told him. Her voice was harsher than she intended, and she saw his expression tighten in a wince that he wasn’t able to hide. “I don’t want your apologies,” she repeated, gentler. After a moment’s hesitation, she lifted a hand and ran her fingertips over the graying stubble on his jaw. “We need to talk, Rafael, but I really do need to leave soon. So first things first. You need to get a continuance.” She saw the confusion ripple through his features. “I know we can’t talk about the case. I know. But like you said, Rita confused Eliza. Just because she thought the delivery guy was there the same night doesn’t mean he actually was, but…she could be confused, or the guy could’ve mixed up his paperwork. Or be lying.”

“Olivia.”

“Get a continuance, get a psych consult on the stand, and have the Bronx SVU look into the deliveryman.”

“The deliveryman didn’t assault her.”

“I know that.”

“They’ll never listen to me.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s just a formality. My squad is already investigating another allegation and they’ll look into Eliza’s case.”

“I don’t think the judge will grant—”

“Convince her,” Benson said. “If anyone can, you can. He won’t get away with it,” she added with the fierce conviction he’d so badly missed since leaving Manhattan.

Barba was silent for long moments, regarding her. “He couldn’t have assaulted her when you were with him.”

“Like I said, she got confused—”

“Do you think he’s guilty?”

She looked away for a few seconds. “I slept with him, Barba,” she finally said. “I didn’t see any red flags. I never would’ve…”

“Of course not, I know that,” he said quietly, shifting closer to her side.

“When I first heard about Eliza’s accusations, I hoped she’d made a mistake.”

“But now you believe her.”

She shook her head and met his eyes. “_You_ believe her,” she corrected. “And that’s enough for me.”

He struggled to swallow past the sudden lump in his throat. His eyes burned with unshed tears. “You trust me after everything I’ve said and done—”

“We wouldn’t be here if we didn’t trust each other, Rafael,” she said, searching his face. “_This_? Never would’ve happened if we didn’t _trust_ each other.”

He considered his words, tracing his finger over the dark hickey. “I had no right to say the things I said to you,” he finally murmured.

“Come on, Barba, you don’t think I was _trying_ to make you jealous? You really think I’ve slept with every ADA?”

He shook his head. “I know you didn’t sleep with Stone, not after my trial.”

“No,” she agreed with the faintest hint of a smile. “You believed about the others, though?”

“No, but it wouldn’t matter if it _were_ true. It’s _my_ fault I wasn’t the one sleeping beside you.”

“Presumptuous,” she accused, but now there was no mistaking the smile curving her lips.

“Can I fix what I broke?” he asked. He searched her eyes, unbreathing as he waited for her response.

“It’s not broken, Rafael,” she murmured. “Just…bent.”

“Can I straighten what I bent?” he asked, grinning in relief when she laughed.

“If I ask you to meet me somewhere after the trial—”

“Yes.”

“—will you show up?” She raised her eyebrows.

“Yes,” he repeated. He wanted to make a dozen promises, but he knew it wasn’t the time.

“Can I use your shower?”

“Of course,” he laughed.

“Wanna join me?” she asked.

He smiled and leaned toward her, hesitating for a moment before touching his lips to hers. She palmed the side of his neck, kissing him with a lazy confidence that made his head spin. She was soft and warm and open, and he loved her with every jagged piece of himself.

“I’ve only got half an hour,” she murmured against his lips. “But next time we can take our time.” She smiled when he slid a hand down her stomach and fingered the elastic waist of her underwear. “Next time I’ll take all my clothes off,” she suggested, pulling back so she could better see his face. “You gonna panic and run away again, Barba?” Her words were light and teasing but he could see the seriousness in her eyes, could hear the weight in her voice.

“Never again,” he vowed.

She tipped her face to give his lips a soft kiss. “I haven’t had sex against a wall in…decades,” she said with a self-deprecating laugh. “I think I’m a little old for it.”

“Sore?” he asked, concern etching lines into his brow.

“Only in good ways,” she assured him with another laugh. “Come on, I think we both need a hot shower.”

He claimed another quick kiss before following her carefully out of bed. "Very hot," he agreed with a wince. "Lots of steam," he added, grinning at the sound of her laugh.


End file.
